M. Brigot would not willingly have received one whose name was anathema, but Cartwright got over the difficulty of his reception by the simple process of sending up a card inscribed with the name of Brigot’s lawyer.
“You!” spluttered M. Brigot, rising to his feet as the other entered the room and closed the door behind him. “This is an outrage! It is monstrous! You will leave this house immediately, or I will send for the police!”
“Now, just keep quiet for a moment, Brigot,” said Cartwright, seating himself coolly. “I have come to see you as one business man to another.”
“I refuse to discuss any business with you,” stormed his unwilling host. “You are a scoundrel, a conspirator—bah! why do I talk to you?”
“Because you’re broke!” said Cartwright in calm, level tones, and he used the Spanish word for “broke,” which is so much more expressive than any word in English.
The conversation was carried on in this language, for Cartwright had an intimate knowledge of its idioms and even of its patois.
“Your creditors in Paris are gathering round like hawks about a dead cow. Your attempt to sell your Moorish property has been a failure.”
“You know a great deal,” sneered Brigot. “Possibly you also know that I am going to work the mine myself.”
The Englishman chuckled.
“I’ve heard that said of you for years,” said he, “but the truth is, you’re wholly incapable of working anything. You’re one of nature’s little spenders—now, Brigot, don’t let us quarrel. There is a time to end feuds like ours, and this is that time. I am a business man, and so are you. You’re as anxious to sell your property at a good price as I am to buy it. I’ve come to make you an offer.”